


As a Feather

by Krytella



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Impact Play, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, PWP, Plot What Plot, Rope Bondage, Suspension Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krytella/pseuds/Krytella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames (well, he isn't Eames yet, not to Arthur, but that's beside the point, isn't it?) is looking to try something new. Arthur gives him a taste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by bottledminx and nightreveals, any remaining badness is my own.
> 
> Inspired by Kink Bingo, although I didn't actually get suspension on my card.
> 
> UPDATE: FruityShirts made [a wonderful illustration](http://fruityarts.tumblr.com/post/113111011580/finally-finished-an-illustration-for-the) based on this story (NSFW image)

“Talk to Arthur,” says the man who introduced himself as Rick, pointing his chin to their left.

“Arthur?”

Eames sees a heavyset woman in a leather vest whipping a man against a post, a young man standing precariously halfway up the latticed rack to straddle the face of his partner, people of various descriptions watching from the bench along the wall. He wonders which one is Arthur.

“He’s the one on the end,” says Rick. “By the corner.”

“Him?”

Eames raises an eyebrow. In the low light of the dungeon, the man looks like he can’t be over 25, and he _is_ a little overdressed for this club, black dress shirt and dark-wash jeans. Eames chose Rick to cozy up to (to charm) after watching the crowd for half an hour, seeing how many people greet him and how they defer to him. And he looks Old Guard, close-cropped grey beard and leather cap and all. Not the type to recommend a kid who’s still trying too hard to prove himself.

Eames only has a few days here, and he didn’t come out for the atmosphere. All things being equal, he wouldn’t choose to spend his time in a place with the ambiance of a warehouse plastered over with a poorly-decorated Goth club. So he thanks his new friend and picks his way around the edges of the room to Arthur’s corner.

To his surprise, Arthur greets him first.

“I saw you talking to Rick. Was he pimping me out again?”

Arthur’s face is deadpan but there’s a thread of amusement in his voice. It’s an unexpectedly pleasant voice, a calm, deep pool in the chaos that is a dungeon on a Saturday night.

“When you put it that way –” Eames laughs. “Hi. I’m Justin.”

Well, today he is, affected Californian accent and all. Eames’ personal life is carefully choreographed, and this is not a part of the persona.

“I’m Arthur. What lies have you been hearing about me so far?”

“I heard that you do rope suspension.”

“Guilty as charged. Ever been suspended before?”

Arthur’s tone is still light. Not trying to play any dominance games. At least not yet.

“No,” answers Eames. “I’ve done bondage. Never in the air.”

“Hmm. How do you feel about pain? I can try to make it as comfortable as possible, but most people still say it hurts.”

There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach at that, a dizzy whirl of anticipation. “I can take some. If I’m in the right frame of mind.”

“Okay. And you know about the risks?”

Eames knows, has been doing research for a while, but he wants to hear what Arthur says. When Eames looks at him expectantly, Arthur continues.

“This is a good club. They test the hard points every month.” Arthur points up across the room to the row of hooks bolted into the exposed beam of the ceiling. It looks structurally sound to Eames, but he’s not an engineer. “But if it does fail, that’s bad. Obviously. Depending on the position, you could be seriously injured. The rope I use is natural fiber, so it can’t be load rated, but I replace it regularly. I’ve seen rope break, once, and the top caught it before any harm was done. I always use multiple passes, which would give me a little extra time to catch you. But it could happen.”

Eames is skeptical at that last, and he lets it show on his face. He has no doubt Arthur is strong, but Eames isn’t as light as the tiny women he’s seen bottom most often.

“I’ve practiced- had a couple of scares. But I’ve never let anyone hit the floor,” Arthur continues firmly. “Other risks are tissue and nerve damage. Limbs can recover from half an hour of circulation restriction, so that’s not much of an issue. Nerves are more of a problem. If I place the ropes wrong, I could cause long term nerve damage. And if you’re in a stressful position for too long it can hurt your joints.”

This is the most complete version of “informed consent” Eames has ever gotten. Arthur’s covered everything on Eames’ checklist and more. It’s a good sign.

“And I guess you have ways of handling those things, too?” he prompts.

“I know the anatomy, and I’ve put dozens of people up with no injuries.”

“Hmm,” Eames says.

“Still interested? You’d be putting a lot of trust in me. I understand if you’re not ready. I can find someone else later, you can watch if you want.”

“No, I’m still… yeah.”

Eames finds that Arthur’s measured recitation of risks wasn’t exactly a turn-off.

“Let me get my bag and we’ll talk about the specifics.”

Eames enjoys the view as Arthur walks off. He wonders if Arthur’s gay; not every man who plays with men is, and there are enough seemingly straight people here to confuse the issue.

Arthur motions him over to the suspension point and starts pulling rope out of his bag, laying each piece carefully on a sheet he’s spread on the floor. It’s coiled in neat bundles of different sizes, he supposes of different lengths and thicknesses, a natural tan color. Is he really going to use all of that? The scene might take longer than he thought.

“How do you feel about being upside down?” Arthur asks without looking up.

“That’s fine.” He’s imagined trying it, swinging in the air with the blood rushing to his head and the room a blur around him.

“We could try inversion. It’s quick. Intense.”

Arthur looks up at Eames, then, giving him an obvious once-over. Eames is in an appropriate uniform for Justin, snug black T-shirt and jeans. He can’t tell if Arthur’s checking him out solely to decide how to hang him from the ceiling as efficiently as possible. He hopes not.

“Any physical limitations? Medical issues?” Arthur goes on.

“My left knee doesn’t bend all the way. Nothing else I know of.”

Arthur probably would have asked about that scar, anyway, if he hadn’t mentioned it.

“That won’t work then, not the way I was going to do it,” Arthur mutters to himself. “How do you feel about face down, then? It’s a little harder than face up, but much more fun.”

He likes the fact that Arthur can talk a good game, at least. Can adapt. Eames has spent plenty of time thinking, researching, but he wouldn’t be much of a bottom if he wanted to run the whole scene. He knows he wants Arthur’s rope on him and he’ll try whatever’s on offer. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Spinning: good or bad?”

Arthur’s on a ladder, now, hanging a carabiner from the ceiling. Eames has an excellent view of his ass, and is thinking of how much touching is required when tying someone up, and how glad he is of that fact at the moment. Thinking of Arthur pushing him, catching him.

“Good, I think.”

Arthur clips on a piece of hardware and a large metal ring, giving the ring a spin. It rotates easily without twisting the strap.

“How intense do you like your sensation? I can try to make this comfortable for you. Or not.”

He’s putting the ladder aside now, rolling up his sleeves with precise, economical movements. Eames is staring at his forearms and almost forgets to answer.

He hopes it won’t make Arthur uncomfortable if this turns him on.

“I can take a lot if I’m in the right headspace. Stinging sensations piss me off.”

“You can take your clothes off now. Leave your underwear on if you want,” Arthur says into his bag. “What’s your right headspace? Do you want to submit? Be forced to? Fight me? Or process it yourself without me in the way?”

“I like to fight, sometimes.”

Eames is pulling off his jeans. He wouldn’t take the offer to keep his underwear on, even if he was actually wearing any to begin with. When he looks up, Arthur raises an eyebrow. Eames only gets a chance to take a step forward, not really sure what he’s doing, and then Arthur has his arm twisted behind him, pushing to the point just before pain. It’s impressive. Hot, if he’s going to be honest, which he might be, today, about this.

Arthur leans in, shirt rubbing against Eames’ bare arm, and says softly into his ear, “I need you to work with me at first. You can fight me once you’re up. Deal?”

“Deal,” Eames confirms, and Arthur releases him and turns to pick up a coil of rope.

The talk doesn’t stop when Arthur stands behind him and starts passing the rope around his chest. He’s close enough that Eames can feel the heat emanating from his body, the brush of his sleeve as he runs his hand over the ropes on Eames’ skin, checking that they’re laying flat. The rope is a little rough, but not painful, and Arthur’s hands are cool.

“Standard safeword here is ‘safeword,’ so I’ll respect that. Or ‘red.’ And since this is our first time, I’m going to stop if you say ‘stop.’”

“Alright.”

Eames is lulled by Arthur’s voice, his careful hands as he ties off the rope and picks up another. The harness on his chest is tight; he supposes that’s so it won’t slip once he’s hanging by it. He tries to take a deep breath and finds that he can’t.

“Rules about marks? I should warn you, the rope will probably leave some. It lasts for a couple of days. Nothing I can do about that.”

“Just not above the collar.” Eames remembers the first suspension he saw, the rows of red dots marching over the bottom’s ribs that she showed off proudly to everyone afterwards. He’s looking forward to tomorrow, to examining himself in the mirror for the evidence.

Arthur runs the second piece of rope around Eames’ hips. The first passes are high across the front, then the next two low, tantalizingly close to Eames’ cock.

“And. Not saying I’ll do it, but if the mood is right, can I hit you?”

“Yes,” Eames breathes. He’s not going to admit that he hopes it will be.

Arthur starts looping rope between Eames’ upper back and the ring. He wraps it, ties, then starts doing the same from the back of the hip rope.

“I’m going to put you up now. Relax into the chest harness. Try to hold your legs up until I get them tied.”

Eames bends forward at the waist until the bonds stop him, feels the lower rope tighten as Arthur pulls him off the ground, balancing one foot and raising a knee under Eames’ hips. This doesn’t seem like a stable position for Arthur, but Eames is disinclined to talk back at the moment. It does hurt as the rope takes his weight, and he pulls his knees up behind him to try to ease the slicing pressure on his hips.

“That’s good, you’re doing great,” Arthur continues absently as he ties the ankle of Eames’ better leg to his thigh and attaches it to the ring above them. Eames feels like Arthur thinks he’s gentling a horse, but he finds he doesn’t really mind. The other ankle is tied by itself to the ring, and then Arthur steps back and Eames is hanging there.

“Anything hurt in a bad way?” asks Arthur.

“No. It’s good. Fine.”

It still hurts, but the pain is distributed. Tolerable. Eames curls his back, trying to ease the load on his hipbones by pushing his weight into his chest. It works, but reminds him that he can only breathe shallowly. He opens his eyes (apparently he closed them) and finds that Arthur’s laying on the floor underneath him, looking up. It’s a little absurd, but when Eames laughs, Arthur reaches up and pokes him in the chest with something. Eames thinks it’s a carbon fiber cane, maybe, the kind that’s small and whippy and incredibly aggravating.

“Ow!” blurts Eames when Arthur pokes him again.

“Ow is not a safeword,” Arthur says in a singsong voice, jabbing at Eames’ belly with the cane. He has dimples when he smiles. It’s adorable and completely unfair coming from someone who obviously likes to torment defenseless body parts with pointy sticks. Eames bats at the cane, trying to grab it, but Arthur sits up just enough to catch Eames’ shoulder and start him spinning.

“No stealing my toys,” admonishes a blurry Arthur.

The rotation is heady but also nauseating. “Yellow on the spinning,” he manages, and Arthur sits up and grabs him around the ribs, holding him until he sways to a stop.

“Okay? You aren’t going to throw up on me, are you?” Arthur’s still smiling a little, face only a foot from Eames.

“You didn’t specify vomit as a safeword either.”

When Arthur makes a face, Eames relents.

“I’m fine. I think swinging is okay. Just no more merry-go-round.”

Arthur lets him go with a push. It is good, a little bit superman, a little bit swing set. The pressure of the ropes has faded to a background hum while he wasn’t watching. It hurts, but Eames doesn’t care so much any more.

Arthur seems to have given up the poking, possibly concerned he’d poke out an eye with Eames moving above him. He seems content to lay back down and watch. The swinging is hypnotic, almost, a slight relief from the pressure at each apex and a quick pulse of intensity at the bottom of the arc as the ropes pull him up.

“Give me your hands,” Arthur says when Eames starts to slow.

Arthur pushes him again, higher this time. Eames laughs, giddy and stupid with the blood rushing to his head, the shortness of breath. The rest of the club is whirling by in his peripheral vision, but lifting his head to look seems like too much work. Even trying to focus on Arthur is hard. He closes his eyes and just _feels_ , feels the spot a rope is pinching his thigh and the blood rushing to his head as he swings back and forth.

Eames is a bit dizzy, a bit breathless, bobbing and weaving with the ropes’ pull like a leaf in a stream. The harness pinches the sensitive skin under his arms. Breathing is starting to feel like _work_.

“How are you doing?”

Arthur’s steadying hand warm on his shoulder, Arthur kneeling so his face is inches from Eames’.

“Good. I... the chest is tight,” Eames says, voice strange to his own ears. It’s a little honest, a little calculating, because he wants Arthur’s hands on him. The accent is getting hard to keep up now, he’s been Eames so often, but Arthur’s voice helps remind him. Matching the people around him has always come easy.

“I can try to take some of the pressure off,” Arthur says. He stands and reaches up to do something with the ropes, putting his belt at Eames’ eye level. Arthur’s not as unmoved by their scene as Eames guessed. Acting without conscious thought, he reaches for Arthur’s belt loops, pulling himself in until his nose touches Arthur’s cock through layers of fabric.

“When did I say you were allowed to do that?”

Arthur’s voice is low, dark, but he doesn’t stop whatever he’s doing. There’s a tug on Eames’ chest, Arthur raising it higher, slight relief, then a sharp pain in the back of his scalp as Arthur pulls on his hair. Eames tightens his grip on the fabric of Arthur’s pants so he doesn’t swing away, and looks up at him, feeling slow and stupid.

“And not that, either.”

Arthur pulls Eames’ hands off him, drawing them together and magically producing a piece of rope from somewhere. Before he knows it, Eames’ hands are tied together in front of his face and fastened somewhere over his head.

“Trying to get yourself in trouble?” continues Arthur, disappearing behind him so Eames has to twist his body to see Arthur crouching down to take off his shoes. He’s set himself spinning slightly, Arthur soon disappearing behind the back of his head. Before he comes around again, the ropes holding him jerk, pulling his chest one way and hips the other, and then Arthur’s touching him, pushing at the juncture of thighs and ass. When he feels pressure on his upper back, he realizes Arthur is actually stepping on him, hanging off the same ropes he’d used to string Eames up. His feet are bare, but the clothed shin now pressing into Eames’ back tells him that shoes and socks are all Arthur’s taken off. He looks over his shoulder, catching just a glimpse of toes, ankle, and trouser cuffs.

Lines of fire spread across Eames’ hip bones and the sides of his chest as Arthur’s weight on his back increases. It hurts more than he thinks he can handle, and he can’t _breathe_ properly and Arthur is crushing him, climbing around as Eames bends and struggles to throw him off. Eames wraps his hands around the rope leading up from his wrists, pulling, leaning into his legs and lifting his back to try to relieve the pressure. It doesn’t work, not enough, burning around his ankle and between thigh and calf where the rope pinches them together. He twists side to side, genuinely trying to throw Arthur off now, fuck the consequences.

“You think you’re gonna win this?” Arthur whispers in his ear, knee painfully digging into Eames’ shoulder blade, other foot planted firmly on his bare ass. Eames kicks his legs again and Arthur shifts, grinding Eames’ bruised hips into the rope, and there’s a sharp sting on the sole of his foot. Arthur is fucking caning his foot, the one that’s trussed up to his thigh so he can’t get away.

“Asshole,” Eames bites out, trying to kick with his other foot. Arthur just laughs and keeps hitting him, holding on easily despite Eames writhing around. It’s hard to think, and at least the caning is distracting him from the way Arthur is using him like a jungle gym. He’s feeling seriously dizzy now, bite of the ropes receding into the background wherever Arthur isn’t pushing his body into them. There are blunt fingernails digging into his ribs, reaching around to slap his chest, sides, thighs, and he just can’t any more, can’t predict what’s going to happen or where or how to escape. Eames stops struggling, only twitching when Arthur hits him hard enough to stand out bright against the dark ocean of sensation he’s floating in. Every time he thinks he can’t make it, thinks it’s intolerable, Arthur shifts above him and there’s a moment of sweet relief before the pain flows back in somewhere else.

Finally, Arthur’s weight disappears. Eames feels feather-light, suddenly, like he might just float away, float up until he hits the ceiling and Arthur will have to pull him back to ground. There’s a hand on his back but it feels like nothing, a bare thread anchoring him to Earth.

Arthur’s hand touches his cheek.

“How are you doing?”

Eames realizes this isn’t the first time Arthur’s asked.

“Fine, I’m fine...”

He barely remembers to keep his words to a minimum, or he’ll slip up and break character.

“I think it’s time for you to come down now.”

Eames sighs and nods.

“Try to hold your legs up.” Eames feels his ankle suddenly released, rope slicing like a hot knife into his hip when his leg drops. He hisses in pain, and Arthur grabs his calf, pulling his leg back horizontal.

“You need to hold yourself up for me, just for a minute,” says Arthur, “can you do that?” His voice is soothing. Eames holds his thigh up, bends his knee, trying to follow instructions.

Arthur releases his other leg from the ceiling, though ankle and thigh are still bound together. Then Arthur’s thigh comes up under Eames’ hips, steady enough even balanced on one foot as he unties ropes and then Eames’ lower body is dropping slowly and he reaches with his free foot and feels cold floorboards. Eames isn’t sure he can stand up like this so he stays, hanging from his shoulders as Arthur unties his other leg, warm hands moving it until his other foot touches the ground.

There’s a hand on Eames’ chest, then, guiding him to straighten up, reminding him how to stand. In a minute an arm is wrapped around him and he realizes he’s free, ropes still trailing from his hips and ankle but no longer attached. He sits on the floor where Arthur presses him down, mutely accepts a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He realizes he’s shivering.

“Is it okay if I go for a minute to get you some water?”

Eames nods mutely. Soon a paper cup is pressed into his hands, and he drinks obediently, post-scene ritual ingrained from dozens of clubs before this one. Arthur is on the floor next to him, absently stroking his back, and if Eames leans into him a little, no one but the two of them has to know.

After Eames puts down his cup, Arthur reaches for his leg, unwinding the rope from his ankle with deliberate care. It’s left deep indentations in his skin, four parallel rings of spiral marks from the rope’s weave. “I need to take off the rest eventually,” says Arthur apologetically, kneeling in front of Eames to wrap his arms under the blanket and untie the knots at Eames’ back. He removes each pass of the rope slowly, rough texture like a massage over Eames’ skin.

Eames sits, starting to notice the sound of other people, talking and playing. The rhythmic slap of leather on skin, someone whimpering, a woman’s scream wafting down from upstairs, all things he used to find disconcerting but now are just background noise, the roar of the ocean of human sexual weirdness. Arthur is coiling his rope back up into neat bundles, just far enough away that Eames couldn’t reach out and touch him. He’s staying where Eames can see him, though, and Eames appreciates the gesture.

After a few minutes, Arthur is packing his things back into his bag, and Eames feels human enough to reach for his clothes, starts pulling on his shirt. Arthur would hang around with him the rest of the evening, he’s sure, if he needed it, but he’d probably rather not.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asks as Eames wobbles to his feet to pull on his pants.

“Good. Great. That was... pretty amazing.” Eames doesn’t have to dissemble, but he plays it up a little, ducking his head shyly.

“You okay to get home and everything?”

Eames didn’t drive there, of course, this is New York, and Arthur may be amazing but he hasn’t rendered him incapable of taking a cab back to his hotel. “Oh yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Arthur’s picking up his sheet from the ground, the blanket from where it’s crumpled around Eames’ feet.

“Well, I enjoyed myself.” Arthur smiles, and it’s only faintly predatory. “I’m usually here, whenever I’m in town, if you want to go again some time.” He offers his hand, and Eames takes it, feeling the strength of his grip as Arthur pulls him in to say close to his ear, “if I tie you a little differently, I could fuck you like that. While you’re in the air.”

A shiver runs down Eames’ spine at that, and he thinks _arrogant ass_ , and also, _fuck yes_. Arthur’s already pulling away, wearing an innocent “nice meeting you” face. Eames suddenly regrets that he’s not in the States very often. He’ll probably never get to take Arthur up on his offer.

\---

Over a year later, Eames ambles into a cafe in Cairo, looking for his contact for a job. He scans the room discreetly, not particularly worried because what are the chances there will be more than one white guy in a purple shirt? He spots the man he’s looking for easily, back turned to Eames and reading a newspaper.

He only realizes after he “accidentally” spills his tea on his contact that it’s Arthur.

“Terribly sorry about that. Eames,” he introduces himself, and Arthur’s bland and professional as he shakes Eames’ hand but it’s the same elegant fingers, grip powerful but short of painful, and Eames knows Arthur remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to make this an accurate representation of suspension bondage, based on my personal experience, scenes I've watched, and classes I've taken. Suspension takes in-person training and a lot of practice to do well; if you're interested, Midori (http://www.ropedojo.com/) teaches around North America, or move to Seattle or San Francisco :P


End file.
